


Coffee and a Past

by punkjerk



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Depression, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, basically just really sad and angsty, im sorry i had to hurt him in the name of writing practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 18:27:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4635660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkjerk/pseuds/punkjerk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A broken soldier with no place to call home.</p><p>based on this fanart and its comment: http://sargeantstuckbutts.tumblr.com/post/101298302514/xbucky-moves-out-of-the-tower-lives</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and a Past

**Author's Note:**

> yes i know a lot of this is probably out of character as well as out of canon but please bear with me, i just really wanted to keep writing and writing and writing and get some practice writing sad things. i hope you still enjoy it though and forgive me for this trainwreck it's also the first fanfiction i've written in like two years (at least) so yeh. please feel free to give all the constructive criticism you'd like because i could definitely use it alright thank you enjoy xx

                It had been two months since Bucky had been invited to move into Stark’s tower. Of course Tony hadn’t made a room for Bucky when it had been built, but there were a couple of spares on the level above Steve’s floor, and Tony said he could use whatever he needed to feel more at home.

                It was forty-eight hours after arriving when Bucky realised he didn’t know what home was supposed to feel like. Everything was too soft – the bed, the pillow, even all the rest of the furniture seemed to blur at the edges – and he couldn’t stand it. Everything else in his head was already a mess of fuzzy lines and deleted scenes, like someone had poured water over a book and ripped out random pages of the story. Nothing was solid here. Certainly it was nowhere he could have thought of as home.

                He couldn’t blame Tony for not being prepared for him though. Even if he could have known, Bucky wasn’t entirely sure he would’ve been stoked about the idea of hosting him there. The longer he went without someone freezing him up or wiping everything, the more returned to him. And the more that returned to him, the more he realised that maybe he could’ve lived without knowing half of the things he’d done.

                He was trying to learn to live with himself again, and maybe that’s why he felt like he couldn’t live with Steve and Stark and everyone else in the tower. He should’ve felt safer here, he should’ve been getting better – but he wasn’t.

                Steve had almost lost his temper when Bucky told him that. It wasn’t because Bucky was uncomfortable, but it was more, _“Oh my god I just got you back and now you want to run away again?”_ Bucky didn’t want to understand the anger behind the calmly presented words but he did. Honestly, he was thinking the same thing, and he was a little more than angry at himself for not being able to stay, too. Even with Steve around, too much was different here. _Especially_ with Steve around, too much was different. Bucky remembered fighting on the helicarrier – he remembered Steve backing down from fighting with him. He remembered that Steve never once backed down from a fight (and sometimes he was a little angry at Steve for making the exception for him).

                Steve had eventually agreed to let him move out, with coercion from Sam. He didn’t mention it at the time, but he saw the way Steve looked at Sam now – the way Steve used to look at _him_ , back before things got ruined. And it made his stomach queasy because he couldn’t help but like Sam, and couldn’t help but think of all the reasons why Steve liked Sam, too.

                The thing is, Bucky and Steve used to be _so good_. He could remember that feeling. They weren’t one without the other, two halves of a ~~seriously messed up~~ whole; they needed each other to breathe so badly they couldn’t see that both of their faces were turning purple the longer they held on. Bucky saw now the way Steve could breathe around Sam – the way his shoulders softened whenever Sam walked in, and the muscles underneath his shirt visibly relaxed under his welcoming touch. And maybe Bucky had been suffocating but _god_ did he miss the pressure on his lungs.

                There were some things he admitted he should leave behind. But leaving was a long process, longer than Bucky had anticipated. Leaving meant lots of words and too many promises and a head so full of static that he couldn’t tell who was speaking to him anymore (even Steve’s voice, which used to be so clear to him, now just blended in with everything else).

                It took weeks to find an apartment that was good for Bucky. Not too high, not too modern, not too far away from an escape route, not too close to Bad Things. But they found one eventually, in a northern sector of Brooklyn, close enough to his origins, but far enough away that he could still feel as if it were all a new start.

                The day Bucky was handed the keys to his new apartment was thrilling, probably the closest to happiness that he’d been in – he couldn’t even remember how long. It involved a lot of pizza boxes and soda bottles on the cold wooden floor with some punk band playing through Steve’s phone. And Bucky was genuinely smiling and laughing as the night grew on, falling a little bit more in love with the way Steve looked in those glasses and that tight shirt, hoping a little bit too hard that it could be like this forever.

                But then someone knocked on the door, and Bucky’s smile faded. Steve turned down the music on his phone and got up to answer it. When he opened the door, Sam poked his head in.

                “Gotta take the fossil back,” Sam smirked from the doorway, and Steve shot him a playfully exasperated look.

                Bucky watched Steve clean up the boxes (he probably didn’t think Bucky would ever get around to it if he left without doing so, and he was probably right).

                “You two look like kids at a sleepover,” Sam chuckled.

                Steve grinned, a little bit lost in thought, before turning back to Bucky. “You gonna be alright tonight?” His mouth opened a little bit as if he wasn’t quite done talking, but he said nothing else.

                “Yeah, yeah I’ll be fine. Night, Steve, Sam,” Bucky smiled at them with all the sincerity he could muster and nodded in their direction. Steve hesitated before he followed Sam out the door, reminding Bucky that their numbers were on the kitchen counter and if he needed anything at all someone would come and he was sorry that he had to go and he would be back as soon as the furniture was delivered tomorrow and then he was out the door. Bucky had just enough time to see Sam wrap his arm around Steve’s waist before the door shut, leaving him in a silence louder than anything he had ever known.

                The apartment was suddenly too big and too cold. He was all alone again, and it was overwhelming. All he had in the new place was an old air mattress and a pile of clothes in a duffel bag. Most of what Bucky had was supplied by Stark, and admittedly the guy had grown on him, but Bucky still felt horrible knowing how much he owed him. Especially after he remembered what pain he’d caused him.

                Everything was too much. Bucky had thought it was going to be better, getting out; he was going to be _good._ But he didn’t feel good. He felt like every bad thing anyone had ever done was his fault. He was running out of air, suffocating again, which was strange because Steve had already left. The world seemed to become smaller in his eyes, or maybe it was just that the walls really were closing in on him.

                He remembered what was happening too late. He’d heard it somewhere before, long ago – scattered words through a silver screen, muffled and dirty.

_"We have diagnosed the Asset with severe anxiety and panic disorders, and we are afraid it will be prone to attacks as well but –“_

                He didn’t hear the end of the sentence. He remembered confusion, and shouts, and a gunshot from the other side of the screen, and then he blanked.

                But what he was feeling now, this wasn’t all blanked out, it wasn’t numb. His entire body was tingling, his chest clenching and closing in on him. His mind was setting off tiny explosions all over the place, making it impossible to think correctly. Every shadow was a threat, every thought was a weapon. Nothing fit together in his mind, his perception skewed with fear, like _ohmygod ohmygod ohmygod this is the end this is what dying feels like this is what dying really feels like there is no way out of this I can’t go there’s nowhere to go I can’t even move I can’t even breathe ohmygod I am helpless I should not be helpless why can’t I fucking_ breathe _I should be better than this what if this is it_ –

                Nothing made sense anymore. He ran his fingers along the grains of the wooden floor until he convinced himself they were there, and that it was solid. He managed to focus his breathing once he felt grounded, counting his breaths. He couldn’t feel himself thinking, wasn’t sure which thoughts were his own and which ones had been programmed. He wasn’t sure how long it had lasted, but his breathing was still erratic and uneven. His head was foggy, too light on his shoulders. He’d ended up crying somehow, tears soaking into his tank top. He was sweating, too, and everything was a mess, a giant, crumbling mess. Bucky wasn’t sure he could pick himself up off the floor where he’d sunk to. He wasn’t even sure he was worth the effort anymore.

**********************************************************************

                Somehow Bucky had drifted off last night. The only remnants he had of the night before were the still-damp tank he was wearing and the leftover bits of anxiety that laced his stomach. He picked himself up off the floor with a groan and shuffled unsteadily to the kitchen sink. He splashed water on his face, trying to rid himself of the events of last night. He didn’t remember much, but he knew the feeling of anxiety attacks all too well, and he was more than a bit ashamed that he’d been brought so low so quickly after leaving.

                Steve came around later in the day, when all of Bucky’s new furniture had been delivered. He was sure he could’ve done most of the setting up by himself, but something told him that Steve felt guilty that he couldn’t make Bucky feel at home enough to want to stay. Bucky wasn’t about to make Steve feel worse if he could help it. Also it seemed to make sense for him to get the artist to help decorate his new apartment and Steve had ordered most of the furniture anyways. With Bucky analysing every possible way the new furniture could obstruct him from a potential escape route, from his living room table to his new mattress, moving in took the majority of the day.

                Once they’d finished adjusting everything to Bucky’s liking, Steve flopped back on the new sofa, and Bucky sank down onto the opposite side, thinking that maybe if he leaned back far enough he could disappear. He wished he’d remembered more of Steve by now, because Steve knew everything, and that included knowing Bucky. He wished they could rediscover each other. He knew lingering touches and breathy sighs and bits and pieces of conversations, but nothing else.

                The silence stretched out between them as Steve purposely tried to make eye contact, but Bucky wasn’t about to look at him. He knew that the golden sun illuminating his entire frame would hurt more than just his eyes to look at. He felt Steve open his mouth to speak, and anticipated the words before they came out.

                “Bucky, are you alright?”

                It was the question everyone always seemed to ask him, as if he could respond with anything other than ‘yes’. So he shrugged and waited for the subsequent lecture from Steve to pour out.

                But the words never came. Instead Steve just sighed and stood up.

                “Electricity and plumbing should be working soon, as well as the air conditioning – I’ll call the companies for you. I’ll come by when I can to make sure that you’ve got all you need and that everything is still okay. Stark set up a bank account for you, said you can go to him or Pepper for the information on it – everyone’s numbers are on the fridge from mine to Barton’s. So if you need anything feel free to call. Sam should be around tomorrow to bring you to the VA meeting, and he’ll take you to therapy on Wednesday and Friday this week.”

                Bucky stared up at the man who he knew had been part of him for so long. There was a certain coldness when he spoke, and he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d done to deserve it, yet still, he accepted it. He didn’t have a good response, so he just nodded. Steve clenched his jaw, almost as if holding back tears and looked down at his phone.

                “I have to go; Sam’s begging me to go get food. Numbers are on the counter. Don’t do anything stupid, Buck,” Steve said, defeated. He picked up his jacket and prepared to leave.

                Bucky didn’t want to be alone again. He wanted everything _but_ to be left alone. But he couldn’t make the words escape his mouth. He watched Steve move slowly, almost as if waiting for him to speak, waiting for something that would convince him to stay. But then he shut the door behind him, leaving Bucky sat where he was, choking on the words that should have filled the silence he let stand between them.

**********************************************************************

                It was a week before Steve showed up at the apartment again. He carried coffee from some local place near Stark’s tower, two arms full of bags from the grocery store, and a string of half-assed excuses to why he hadn’t – sorry, _couldn’t_ visit sooner. He’d knocked, too, even though he had the spare key to the apartment.

                Bucky was doing a bit better. He wasn’t panicking _every_ day, and he’d only had two major scares (some loud construction across the street) that week. He was nibbling on food, mostly surviving on bad coffee, but he was still hardly sleeping. Steve had made sure he’d gotten the most comfortable mattress that they could find, but it didn’t seem to help much when any bed felt like cool metal every time he laid down, even in this heat, and the sheets felt more like restraint than comfort. Every time he’d tried to close his eyes they’d burst back open with a memory of some other horrifying murder he’d committed, or some experiment he’d endured (it wasn’t like he wasn’t already constantly plagued by how unclean he was).

                They tried talking as Steve cleaned up around the apartment a bit and made sure that all the food was properly put away in the fridge. He made sure that the electricity and water were working, and that nothing needed fixing. Well, nothing physical at least. Bucky was sure that Steve was aware of the most broken thing in the apartment. He was grateful for all Steve had done, he truly was, but he couldn’t help wondering how long it would take before Steve gave up on taking care of him. They talked about the apartment and about anything except how Bucky actually felt, because he had quickly learned that Steve could fix a lot of things, but no one could fix people.

                He said that yes, he was going to go to Veteran Affairs once a week and therapy twice a week with Sam (Sam knew how to deal with Bucky like not even Steve knew how). He was upholding his promise and their agreement; he just wasn’t sure how it was supposed to help yet. He liked listening to the veterans in Sam’s meetings, but he wasn’t so keen to speak up yet. He hoped that just listening would be enough. Therapy was different. Therapy was all talk, and Bucky couldn’t remove the words from under his tongue. The lady seemed okay – fairly young – but she felt cold to Bucky (truthfully, she was visibly unsettled by Bucky’s metal arm, and her behaviour made him uneasy). She went over the types of therapies they would be trying with him, and all he could do was nod – because really, what choice were they giving him? She wanted to know everything about him, down to what the colours in his bedroom were (the answer was grey – everything was grey to Bucky), and eventually he started to feel the blood boiling under his skin. They’d only met twice, but even when Bucky said nothing he started to feel like they were tracking everything. The lady – he didn’t even know her name yet – wrote down every movement he made on that dumb notebook of hers. He knew he’d crack one day, knew he’d scream about files being kept on him and his tongue would slip loose and release everything he’d hidden away under there for all that time. He knew that was exactly what they were waiting for.

                But he didn’t tell Steve all that.

                He just nodded and half-smiled and said that everything was perfectly fine. He had no doubt that Sam was meant to inform Steve on his progress during VA, but everything in therapy was confidential to him. They couldn’t tell Steve about his progress there, not unless he harmed himself or harmed someone else (he’d laughed humourlessly when they’d told him that). But Steve was so innocent, so hopeful – saying it had only been a week and he was sure something good would come out of it soon – that Bucky was tempted to let his tongue slip right there. But Steve deserved better than _~~him~~_ that.

                Steve made them sandwiches for lunch, and Bucky only had half, promising he just wasn’t that hungry and he’d save the rest for later (spoiler: he didn’t). Steve made a round of checking that everything was cleaned up and in its place before claiming someone needed assistance over at the tower. Bucky could tell it was a half-hearted lie – not entirely false, but not good enough to be believably true either. So Bucky smiled as Steve opened the door, thanking him for coming and holding on to Steve’s promise of “see you soon” before dropping his smile and promise on the floor when he left.

**********************************************************************

                Things started to clear up a bit in the following weeks. Bucky fell into a rhythmic weekly routine. He was showering almost every day, and he was eating a little bit more (but he was still gorging on that bad coffee he’d become accustomed to). Of course, everything still hurt. His muscles ached constantly, and nothing worked. He’d tried heat packs and painkillers with no results. He wanted the pain gone, but he’d had vivid flashbacks of experiments and procedures gone wrong whenever he contemplated getting help for it. No, he couldn’t do that – it would involve doctors and questions about scars and too much fear. He couldn’t let people that close to his body. Instead he just rested most of the time, and breathed until he could bear the pain. Some days were better than others. He got out of bed and explored the city on days when he felt especially okay, when his lungs felt like they could take in all the air from outside. On those days he walked. He walked till his feet blistered in his shoes and until he got too tired to be tense from fear of being tracked. He had discovered the local library one day, and finding all that knowledge being held in one place took a bit of weight off his chest, like he could finally know everything he’d missed in one sitting. Every part of the world he had been disconnected from was all there, in front of him. It made him feel more solid, more real. The people at the counter were nice, helping him sign up for a card and letting him stay to read as long as he wanted (and Bucky wouldn’t say it, but they’d hardly glanced at his metal arm when he walked in, which was a welcoming change from the people on the street who side stepped him as he passed. Bucky wasn’t about to wear a jacket in this New York heat). He’d pick up a cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes on his way back home, books tucked under his arm and a ghost of a smile on his lips.

                There was something about learning that Bucky quickly became infatuated with. He had only recalled being in love once before, and the feeling of _knowing_ almost felt as good as that. There was so much to know, so much he’d missed out on. If he’d thought his missing memory was a setback before, he could never have possibly imagined the types of things the world endured while he had been disconnected, could never imagine the reprieve he could find in learning. And he felt entirely like someone had pulled the plug on him over and over again, and he just wanted to fill in those blanks.

                So he read. Everything, anything; from fantasy to historical novels to autobiographies, he worked his way through the shelves, genre by genre. He rented films and even listened to new music (found he enjoyed punk music more than he thought he would, made him feel like he wasn’t so alone). Steve taught him some of the new technology when he dropped by, and it wasn’t easy to work with, but he was getting the hang of it. But mostly, he just read. He spent endless days at the library, and he’d become a quick reader, spending perhaps a little bit too much time caught in the hold of a book. Word after word, sentences strung together so cryptically that every page was a puzzle, a solution waiting to be discovered. Sometimes he began to think it was all just an escape, a diversion from his new reality. (He ignored the part of his brain recognising this – this wasn’t cure, this was anaesthetic.)

                On the days he didn’t go out, he lay on his bed (which was starting to feel a lot more like a mattress than an operating table nowadays), opened the windows, and let the cool breeze from the streets below float over him, trying to relieve the tension from his body. Today was one of those days. It was a Thursday, which meant that he didn’t have to leave the house if he didn’t want to. And he really didn’t want to.

                He lit up a cigarette; the Marlboros that he used to like back in the 40s didn’t taste the same, but that was okay. He’d only ever smoked them when he was missing Steve (he’d recalled all the late nights in the army – before everything had gone wrong). And if he’d discovered one thing since returning, it was that missing Steve wasn’t going to change, no matter how much he did.

                It was this day, with the noise of the bustling city coming through the open window and the smell of his cigarette filling the room, that he saw movement in the window. Adrenaline rippled through him, and he was up and on his feet in a second, cigarette held between his lips, drawing the knife from under his sweatpants in a defensive position. He’d immediately softened when he noticed the grey of a cat rubbing against the window frame, meowing quietly. It hopped into the room, padding softly on the carpet and Bucky breathed in relief and released the tension in his muscles. He sheathed the knife and eased back down onto the bed, beckoning to the cat.

                It didn’t seem very old, but it was definitely not a kitten. Its fur was a dirty grey with patches of white on its tail and paws, and was matted in places; based on its scrawniness he’d guessed it must have some sort of parasite. Definitely not a house cat, but it didn’t seem completely malnourished. Honestly, Bucky didn’t know much about cats. He couldn’t really remember liking animals all that much, but he was drawn to this one. And the change seemed one he could live with.

                This one seemed to like him, too. Bucky was at least fairly certain that cats tended not to be the friendliest to strangers, but the cat had inched forward towards him, and his heart jumped a little bit with pride. The cat kept pressing forward, testing the ground between them. Something in the way the cat walked reminded him of himself – all too cautious and alert. He moved his arms out slightly to try and let the cat sniff his hand.

                But as he reached forwards, the cat darted back out the window before he could even blink. Bucky sat there in a state of defeat and a little bit of sadness. Crestfallen, he took his cigarette out of his mouth and put it out on the windowsill. He lay back down and stared out the window as the last curls of smoke drifted from the cigarette and out above the Brooklyn skyline.

**********************************************************************

                He told his therapist about the cat the next day. He wasn’t sure why. Anne, whose named he had learnt, was a simple businesswoman. Everything about her was grey, from her face to her skirt. She was a machine, he’d noticed; she wore no makeup and had no bags under her eyes. Everything about her seemed to come straight from a newspaper – dry and colourless. He’d observed the other patients in the waiting area, and none of them had a spark of life either. He supposed that should have been a red flag from the start.

                But he had something of a schedule, one that called him to be here twice a week. On one day they worked on PTSD things, on the other Anne thought she’d try to get him to talk about himself. Bucky didn’t have much choice in the matter. He’d resisted for the past couple of weeks, and most Fridays they ended up sitting in silence until the hour was up and he was escorted out.

                But today, he filled that silence. He recounted the whole event to her, but left out the missing Steve part of it (he wasn’t ready to discuss all that quite yet). When he was finished, he watched her face. A tense silence built between them. Bucky wasn’t sure about his therapist yet – it was odd how she wanted them to be on a first name basis, yet she gave absolutely nothing away about herself. It was unsettling.

                After a moment, she spoke up. “And how did that make you feel?”

                Bucky had had absolutely no idea what to expect, but he couldn’t have said he expected that. It was cold in a way he hadn’t known before (and he had known cold). In a way, it angered him that he didn’t predict it – he was too caught up in the story of the cat – but he should have known. All anybody wanted from him was to talk about how he felt.

                So he clamped up after that. He was sick and tired of everyone wanting to know how he was doing, because it didn’t matter what he fucking said, or how he said it – no one was going to really listen to what he was saying. He shared one instance of happiness with this stranger, a moment of complete vulnerability, only to have it snapped away right before his eyes.

                “How did it make you feel?” she asked again. Her voice was pure ice in his ears.

                He felt a chill run down his body, and not from fear or frigidity. Anger vibrated along his spine and buzzed beneath his skin.

                “James, how did the cat darting away from you make you feel?” Her tone was sweet as molasses, condescending almost.

                And that was another thing – she refused to call him Bucky, stripping away the one part of his identity he was sure of. Fury was rippling through his veins now, and he didn’t want to, oh _god_ , he didn’t want to, but he felt himself losing it. He was too tired too heartbroken too sad it was all too much too much too much –

                “James –”

                He was seething, whispering through his teeth; he’d been taught to hold his tongue, sit tight, keep your mouth shut, swallow your anger.

                It was enough for him.

                “ _Can’t you see it? Can’t you fucking see?_ I feel like a monster, okay? I wake up every day with the thought that maybe everything I’d dreamt that night was some sick fucking joke, and that maybe it’s still the way it was before and I didn’t kill all those people, I didn’t lose my arm, I didn’t fall off that train, I didn’t die screaming for the only person I loved who didn’t – couldn’t – catch me. I wish I didn’t have to wake up wanting to scream at everyone and tear my arm off because I can’t _feel it. I can’t fucking feel it anymore_. You want to know how I really feel? I don’t feel anything at all, because monsters aren’t supposed to fucking feel. I watched that cat run as soon as I moved, I watch the people in the street side step me more than they should, even in the middle of goddamn New York, and I know that I deserve every second of it all.”

                He’d barely breathed; his face was contorted in pain from releasing the things he’d felt within the past few weeks. He was sure his face was flushed, which only increased his rage because monsters didn’t flush, they didn’t _feel_ this way.

                Anne hardly blinked. “Please, sit down.”

                He couldn’t remember standing up. He was breathing heavily a few steps away from her chair, and the flowers that usually sat on the table between them had been knocked to the ground.

                Bucky felt like he was about to cry. He backed down and sank back into the sofa across from her.

                “I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his face and trying to release the tension in it.

                “Don’t apologise, James.” She put down her pen and notepad that she always kept during their sessions and looked straight at him. In the moment he stared at her, she revealed something inside her that made him believe, just for a moment, that she wasn’t all machine.

                They sat in silence once again. She looked like she wanted to say more, and he waited. But the clock behind her ticked to the last minute of their session and the timer that went off.

                “You did well today. I’ll see you Wednesday, James,” she said, her stony demeanour resurfacing.

                Bucky got up and left the room, not waiting to be escorted. He walked straight past Sam who had to rush to keep up with him, and automatically climbed into the passenger seat of his car.

                On the way home, neither spoke a word.

**********************************************************************

                Things started to get bad in the following weeks. Whatever progress Bucky had made in the few weeks of therapy had more than plummeted back down again. Anne had been making note of his silence and his lack of cooperation with the therapy programs he was in. He’d stopped responding to the psychotherapy, and they had returned to sitting in silence with each other for an hour.

                The thing was, Bucky wanted to speak. He wanted to spill everything that was making him feel numb and broken, but when he wanted to say them, his mouth refused to comply. So they sat in a hard silence until the hour was up. He spoke of the therapy sessions to no one.

                Sam’s VA meetings weren’t much better. He still didn’t speak, he just listened to the stories of others, and tried, desperately _tried_ to glean some benefit from them. Sam was good to him. He let him keep his silence, but kept a careful watch on his reactions. Once, a couple weeks in, Sam stopped him after a meeting.

                “Listen, Barnes,” he’d started, and the confrontation froze Bucky up. “I think we both know that I’m supposed to be relaying your progress to Steve. And I think we both know that there isn’t much progress going on. Now, just listen to me for a moment. I’ve seen all types of people come into that room for the first time with their heart set on not doing anything to help themselves and leave the same way. Much like you’re doing now. But I’ve also seen people who start off that way get better. They start leaving with one less worry line on their face, and sometimes even a smile. Those were the people who walked in and held their faces like statues from the moment they came here till the moment they left.”

                “What I want you to understand is that I know this isn’t easy. I can’t imagine exactly what you went through, but I do have some idea, and every other person in that room has another idea that maybe you’ll relate to. These things take time. Point is, I won’t tell Steve the full details of your progress. But you have to promise me that you’re gonna try to make some use of these meetings. No one is gonna be able to help you if you don’t wanna help yourself, y’hear me?”

                Bucky stared. His mouth was dry, and Sam’s last sentence resounded in his ears.

                “I’ll try my best, Wilson.” he managed to get out.

                Sam was way too good to him.

                So he’d promised. As much as he should’ve hated Sam, he didn’t. And for the first time in a while he felt like he had someone on his side.

                But the VA meetings weren’t the problem for Bucky. Therapy was the real issue. He had been diagnosed with several mental illnesses, including anxiety and panic disorders, depression, and post-traumatic stress disorder.

                They’d been doing typical cognitive processing and behavioural therapies centring around the traumas he’d faced, which consisted of long, arduous sessions where Anne tried to draw as much out of him as she could, as much as he could bear to remember. They’d started getting somewhere during one of those sessions, when he’d started talking about Steve, and the end of the line. Then he’d remembered the helicarrier, and suddenly he felt as though he were suffocating beneath a ten tonne block of concrete. The anxiety attack had been disorienting, and had left Bucky crying on the floor, shaking and sobbing, his body contorted with fear. When he’d come out of it, after the memory subsided, he’d shut up; he didn’t speak a word in the sessions, didn’t say a word to pretty much anyone for a good two weeks.

                Everyone had agreed to hold off on the PTSD treatments until Bucky spoke again. That didn’t happen till his first encounter with the cat.

                Anne decided to get him back on the treatments. She could tell Bucky was getting worse; _everyone_ could tell Bucky was getting worse. The cognitive processing hadn’t worked, and honestly, Bucky already knew his triggers (loud noises, talk of the train and Steve, cold metal – it was a long list) – he just needed to deal with them better. The next option was to try Eye Movement Desensitisation and Reprocessing therapy. Last week, the session where Bucky had spoken of the cat, Anne had assessed him to see if he could handle getting into the treatment again. She thought this would be good for him. They’d gone over how it was supposed to work: he would think of a negative thought while focusing his eyes on a moving object, which then is supposed to soothe the negative feelings. Bucky was doubtful of the effectiveness of the method, but with few other options, had grudgingly agreed. It took them another week to start the treatment, after confirming that Bucky was fairly stable and able to handle it. He must have feigned stability well because she gave the go ahead. Bucky walked into the therapy centre, radiating a confidence that he’d convinced even himself that he had. Sam walked in after him, took a seat and promised Bucky that he’d be right there when he finished. Bucky shot Sam a small smile and nodded his thanks before following an assistant into the treatment room.

                The panic set in as soon as he opened the door. The room was different, not what he was used to. Two small metal arm chairs stood in the centre of the room. Bucky fought back the surge of terror that was trying to escape through his chest. He took a deep breath, trying to control his breathing. Anne turned around from her desk and smiled at him, genuinely, but through Bucky’s distorted view it passed as a grimace. She gestured to the small chair, and he sat stiffly, the cold pressing into his human arm. His heart pounded furiously against his ribs.

                “Are you ready?” Anne asked, sitting down opposite him.

                Bucky swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded as convincingly as he could. Fear was clouding his ability to think properly. She was patient, he would admit that.

                “Okay, now I want you to close your eyes and think of something simple that you dislike about your traumas, or take whatever image is most vivid in your mind and hold it.” She instructed.

                He thought of the train immediately, and his gut twisted. Bucky was holding himself together on a thread, eyes shut tight, trying to keep the image of the train in his mind. He was on the verge of quaking with fear, unsure of how long he would have to keep this up. He heard Anne’s voice in the background of his vision.

                “Take a deep breath, and when you can, slowly open your eyes.”

                And that’s when he crashed.

                When he opened his eyes again, all he could see was Anne raising a hand between them. It was meant to be part of the therapy – he _knew_ this – but he could see nothing but Steve’s hand, reaching out towards him, and the rush of the cold wind as he fell, falling and falling and falling and watching him disappear. With her hand reaching towards him and the cool metal of the chair on his skin panic coursed through his muscles, and the concrete block was back on his chest. Anne stopped and tried to reach out towards him again, which caused even more panic. His heartbeat pounded through his whole body, and he was crying and shaking intensely. He registered a scream, a call for help from somewhere, for someone; he felt himself yell too, but he couldn’t hear it through the ringing in his ears. His vision was blurred by the tears streaming down his face. He’d backed into a corner and slid down to the floor, trying to get his senses together.

                Through his clouded vision he saw a dark figure leaning down across from him. Bucky wiped his eyes furiously, trying to get a clear image. The figure was speaking to him, shushing him, which Bucky found strangely soothing instead of irritating. As his vision cleared, he saw Sam kneeling in front of him.

                “Hey kid, shhh, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

                Slowly, Bucky’s vision came back into full focus, and the noise in his ears subsided.

                “Hey hey, it’s alright Barnes. That was rough wasn’t it? Okay, you’re okay, you’re okay. Focus on my voice. Can you hear me?” Sam was saying.

                Bucky was shaking severely, but he managed a nod.

                “Alright, I’m gonna need you to breathe. We’re gonna take a deep breath for five seconds, okay?”

                Bucky tried his hardest to take in a breath, counting to five as he did so.

                “Now exhale to the count of 6, and repeat that again.”

                Sam sat with him on the floor there, guiding him through the breathing until his heart rate returned to normal, and he could stand up again.

                “I’m gonna take him home, Steve or I will contact your office as soon as we can,” Sam told Anne as he kept a steadying arm on Bucky and guided him out. As they left, Bucky noticed two other people in the room standing by Anne who was rubbing her wrist, where he could just glimpse the red of fresh bruises forming in the shape of fingerprints before the door shut behind him.

                Sam led Bucky out to the car, Bucky rubbing his right arm furiously in an attempt to feel real again. They got in the car, and Sam exited the parking lot. But he took a left when they always took a right to get back to his apartment, and Bucky’s heart jumped again.

                “Where are we going?” he asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as he possibly could.

                “You and Steve need to have a very serious talk. I know this is not the first time you’ve panicked like that, I can tell. You were too used to that situation. You’re not getting better, kid.”

                Bucky knew he was right. But he wasn’t about to dump all of his baggage on Steve, he couldn’t do it. He scrambled for an excuse to get out of it.

                “Wait, just… just wait,” he said as they came up to a red light. He was still disoriented. He chewed on his lip, trying to find the right words to say what he really meant without letting his guard down too much. “Listen, Sam, I can do this. I know, I said I could do this and it seems right about now that I can’t and I’m sorry you have to deal with me like this. But I don’t think Steve should know about all this; he wouldn’t handle it very well and I don’t think that would make me any better, knowing that he was hurting and all. I can do this; just – just let me try a little longer.”

                Sam didn’t respond. The light turned green and he drove to the nearest parking lot, turned around and started back in the direction of Bucky’s apartment. Bucky breathed an audible sigh of relief.

                “Make this chance good, Barnes. You have the opportunities at hand; it’s up to you to use them.”

                “Thank you,” he said, genuinely and audibly this time.

**********************************************************************

                It had been two months since Bucky had moved out of Stark’s tower.

                It had been three weeks since his last incident with the PTSD treatment.

                Therapy got worse. Bucky wouldn’t say a word, refusing to comply again. He still said nothing at the VA meetings and honestly, he could tell Sam was tired of trying to get him to. Bucky had gotten worse in general. He’d stopped sleeping. On the nights he did sleep, he dreamt of another murder, with his finger behind the trigger or holding the knife. He saw blood and heard screams. He dreamt of reprogramming, waking up in a cold sweat and tangled in the sheets from thrashing around with the memory of the pain. He decided not sleeping at all was better than waking himself up with his own screams.

                He couldn’t eat any more than he could fall asleep. He nibbled on whatever Steve brought him, enough to convince Steve that he was fine for the day (he had a feeling Steve knew. He had a feeling everyone knew that he was fucked, but he didn’t have the heart to admit it to them). He drank coffee and smoked cigarettes as often as he missed Steve, or any other good thing from his past (which was almost all the time). He’d stopped caring about anything.

                The only small glimmer of hope he still had was the feral cat that had come into his window that one afternoon over a month ago had come back. It had been hard, getting the cat to trust him, but Bucky made slower movements, and bribed it with the food he didn’t eat. It took days for it to let him even touch it. Now he lay there on his bed sheets in a light tank top and now too big sweatpants sitting loosely on his hips, another cigarette between his fingertips and the cat purring against his chest as he ran his other hand through its fur (the cat seemed to like the feel of the cool metal on its back). He’d essentially adopted the cat, had even brought it into the vet to get checked for parasites and such. The vet confirmed it was female, and they screened her for a microchip to see if she already had an owner, but it came up blank.

                The cat came and went as she pleased, save for when Bucky called her in at night so he could lock the window. She had found a home, it seemed (and at least one of them felt that way).

                Steve noticed the cat right away. He’d been coming over more often (twice weekly instead of once; at Sam’s suggestion, no doubt). Bucky should’ve enjoyed this more than he did. Truly, he did enjoy Steve’s company. He liked the way Steve moved through his apartment with ease, and Steve knew a lot more about the present than Bucky. They’d make coffee, good, real New York coffee and Steve would talk.

                But it hurt more than Bucky wanted to believe it did. Steve spoke of the present like it was better than anything in the past. Bucky didn’t know much about either, but Steve had loved him in the past, he knew that much.

                Steve didn’t love him now. And maybe he’d let go. Maybe he’d moved on like Bucky promised himself he’d start doing. Bucky tried to learn about Steve, everything about Steve that he’d missed when he’d been gone. But Steve didn’t like to talk about what used to be. He spoke of the now with a twinkle in his eyes, and a bitterness sat in the bottom of Bucky’s stomach as he pushed away the realisation that nothing would be the same between them ever again.

                Bucky was used to keeping his face expressionless, emotionless – he’d been trained to do so. But he knew that wasn’t enough for Steve now, so he’d mastered the art of smiling while his entire world was crumbling down around him. When Steve was around, he didn’t have to fake it as much, but with every word exchanged between them Bucky felt his smiles and laughter become gradually less genuine. He found himself bracing for Steve’s smiles, overwhelmed with guilt at not being able to replicate how sweet and genuine they were. He couldn’t shake the love he had for the boy. He was sure it was going to be the death of him one day.

                They’d gained back some of the comfort that they used to have though, and their conversations were double-sided and engaging, but Bucky just couldn’t make himself forget the way he felt about Steve. It felt normal to talk and just talk and not have to think so much, and Bucky lived for the feeling of simply existing together that way.

                But he knew Steve didn’t. Bucky wasn’t his everything, and to think that he was would have been a tremendous fault. So maybe it shouldn’t have shocked him as much as it did when Steve started talking about Sam the way he did.

                “Yeah, he’s amazing. I think he knows my limits and boundaries, and I think he’s good for me. I’m so glad I might be able to marry him one day, you know, now that there isn’t such a risk. He feels like someone I want to spend the rest of forever with. But don’t tell Sam I said all that,” Steve said with a chuckle, as if he hadn’t torn through so many layers of Bucky’s defences over the months just to stab him right in the chest again. 

                “Wow,” Bucky mumbled, coughing to expel the words that were getting stuck in his throat, “That – that sounds amazing, I’m really happy for you.”

                He swallowed the bile that was rising from his stomach, and did his very best to smile at Steve. Because Steve deserved it, he really did. Steve deserved the best and if this was what he wanted then Bucky wasn’t going to stand in the way of that.

                “Yeah,” Steve smiled into his coffee cup, lost in a daydream. Silence stretched between them, for the first time in weeks. It was broken by Steve’s phone ringing, and Bucky glimpsed Sam’s name on the screen, and watched Steve fight back the grin tugging at his lips. Bucky stood up abruptly, taking his coffee cup, and putting it in the sink. He was lost in his own thoughts, trying to calm his emotions (jealousy? anger? bitterness? He didn’t know anymore), mindlessly filling and emptying the cup with water in a poor attempt to wash it. Eventually he placed it down, leaving it full of water so he could get to actually washing it later, when he had the mental strength to do it. He listened to Steve mutter his “yeah” and “mmhm” and “yes, babe” before hanging up.

                Bucky turned around, and almost ran right into Steve who had somehow come up behind him and was standing just a little too close in attempt to place his own mug into the sink. His heart involuntarily sped up at the close proximity. He met Steve’s eyes for a second, and he could see the love in them – love that wasn’t meant for him anymore. Bucky fought down the heat rising in him and sidestepped Steve, avoiding any more eye contact. He went back over to the table and pretended to busy himself with cleaning up. He heard Steve clear his throat a little bit from behind, and worked a little bit slower.

                “Hey, Buck, I gotta go, uh, Sam wanted to go out for dinner tonight. I’ll be around soon, okay?”

                Bucky took a deep breath, desperately attempting to settle his nerves, and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He turned around, hoping he didn’t look as disconcerted as he felt.

                “Yeah, don’t worry about it, Steve. I hope you have fun,” he tried his best to sound genuine, but his voice cracked at the end. He could feel the pricking starting up behind his eyes, and anger bubbling up through his gut. Steve’s composure changed, and Bucky knew that his own defences had fallen again.

                “Bucky,” Steve sighed, defeated, taking a few steps closer. He tried to reach a hand out to comfort his best friend, but Bucky caught it and pushed it back.

                “Steve, don’t. Really, there’s nothing you can do. I’m trying to be happy for you, I honestly am, I just –” He trailed off, not really sure what he could – or should – admit. “I just, still need time, you know.”

                Steve was frowning, but Bucky could tell he wasn’t actually all that sad. He seemed more hurt like maybe, possibly, he could know the pain Bucky was going through. Bucky could believe that Steve didn’t want him to hurt, but there was no way he was regretting falling in love with Sam. And honestly, Bucky couldn’t blame him if he wanted to, because he knew, he _knew_ that Sam was good for Steve and there was no taking that away from him.

                “I’m sorry,” Steve muttered, as if it pained him to apologise.

                “You don’t have to be,” Bucky surrendered. “We both know you don’t have to say that to me.” The silence rang in the air. They were so close Bucky could have extended his arm and reached Steve’s chest, yet he hadn’t felt such a distance between them in decades.

                Steve’s face had fallen, eyebrows furrowed, and Bucky couldn’t figure him out. At the moment, he couldn’t find it in him to care, and he didn’t ask as Steve turned around and left without another word. As the door closed behind him, Bucky felt a brick fall in the space where he left, the start of a wall he never thought would come between them.

**********************************************************************

                Bucky hadn’t left his apartment since Steve had shut the door a little too hard that day. If there was any way to shut anyone out in his situation, he managed it. Sam came around for the VA meeting the next day, and Bucky made up some excuse about not feeling well and just needing sleep. When Sam bought it and let him slide, Bucky lit up another cigarette.

                Sam came around two more times for therapy sessions that Bucky blew him off for too. Honestly, he didn’t know what had come over him, but nothing meant anything anymore. He wasn’t eating enough food, and he forgot to drink water until he was scared he was on the verge of passing out. He sometimes forgot to lay out food and water for the cat (which he couldn’t quite figure out what to name yet) which made him feel even shittier than he already did. He was lucky he wasn’t on medication because he knew he would have forgotten to take that too. All he seemed to do was attempt sleep and smoke. His physical pain had flared up again too, and he couldn’t move without his bones creaking under him and his metal arm weighing him down with every step. So when he couldn’t sleep, he lay on his bed with a cigarette between his lips, focusing on the endless drone of the city outside his window, desperately wishing he could.

                It was another week and a half before Steve came back around, and Bucky was sure it was because Sam had told him that he wasn’t doing well. In fact, the knock at the door was soft, so unlike the Steve he knew that he thought it was Sam coming to try to get him out for therapy again (it was Wednesday after all). He was clearing his throat to yell to Sam that today wasn’t gonna work, until Steve called his name through the door, and Bucky held his tongue. He squeezed his eyes shut. He couldn’t. Steve started speaking softly to him through the door, but not words that he could decipher, it was just the same tone of voice he used to use when things got too hard for them and Bucky ended up crying on the couch in Steve’s place. It was soothing. It felt like the lingering sense of home he used to know, an almost welcoming contrast to this empty shell of a house. Almost.

                It was too much. He couldn’t stand listening to that voice. He’d just woken up, and the clock by his bed told him he’d missed breakfast – not like he was going to eat anyways.

                He dragged himself off his mattress and over to the front door. It was Steve, after all. But there was still a bitter taste in his mouth from their last meeting and if Bucky could’ve burnt it off with another cigarette he would have.

                Instead, he unlocked the door, and his friend stepped into the apartment. Steve closed the door behind him and before Bucky could say anything to make up an excuse, Steve held up a hand and said,

                “Sam told me everything.”

                Bucky froze. He couldn’t meet Steve’s gaze. He could feel all the words Steve was thinking pounding into his back: _I’m so disappointed, why didn’t you tell me? we’re here to help, you can trust us you can trust us why don’t you trust us? why don’t you trust_ me _? why can’t you just be normal why can’t you just –_

                “Why didn’t you tell me?”

                “Didn’t think you should know.” Bucky’s voice cracked. He hadn’t spoken to anyone in days, and the words were hard to get out.

                “Buck, you know that you promised you’d try right? You promised everyone at the tower that you’d make an effort. You told me you wanted to be better. I don’t understand.”

                Disappointment dripped from his voice and rang in Bucky’s ears. He couldn’t take it.  He could feel every suppressed emotion bubbling up from under the cement blocks he’d weighed them down with.

                “Bucky, you said you would make an effort if you got to move out of the tower. You said you’d try. More than that, you said you _wanted_ to try.” Anger was pricking at the corner of Steve’s words now too. “I don’t understand, are you just taking everything that was given to you for granted? We all worked so hard for you. I thought you had what you wanted.”

                A strangled laugh escaped Bucky’s lips. Steve couldn’t begin to understand what he wanted now. He hadn’t wanted to speak to anyone for a week, his voice scratchy from all the cigarette ash. But every word he’d been harbouring for Steve, through every conversation and meeting and passing remark overwhelmed him. He met the soldier’s eyes, expecting to see anger and disgust, but the sadness and disappointment was even more painful. He didn’t break though. He spoke, and oh, he spoke more clearly than he could remember doing since he’d gotten away from Hydra, his voice ice in the heat of the apartment. 

                "How _dare_ you speak of gratefulness to me. You couldn't begin to understand what I'm going through because you never fucking bothered to find out! You know, just because I wanted to get better, just because I wanted this life on the outskirts of yours doesn't mean that it's automatically going to be fan-fucking-tastic for me! You think I don't know what I owe all of you? You think I don't realise that I'm not worth everything everyone has given up for me? You think I don't _realise_ that this isn't working anymore? I know I said I'd try. I know I said I wanted to try. But I can't even talk to my best friend anymore – his boy toy takes me to therapy and I – I'm a ghost in my own goddamn life Steve, and _nothing_ is fucking working. You know, I thought I could do this because I thought _you_ would be the one helping me through this. Because it was always supposed to be you and me, right? We were always so much more, in every way. Fuck, Steve, all I remember is terrible things, but the things I remember about you aren’t one of them. I remember you, or at least how I felt – feel – about you in every way and you can't even be here for me right now, when I don't know anything else, about who I used to be or what even happened in the past. I don't remember anything at all, and you want me to readjust to this brand spankin' new place with no help from you, the only person who could _possibly_ understand, if you fucking cared enough. There’s nothing here but too much goddamn coffee and a past so bad you can't be bothered to listen to it, to what I remember from in between the ice that has been eating me alive every moment I’m even _slightly_ conscious. I don't remember anything but when I look at you – something feels okay, feels right even. And it doesn't even have to be romantic you know! I –" He hesitated for a second. He watched Steve’s face, which seemed frozen, his mouth slightly agape, as if stunned, offended. This only reignited Bucky’s anger, and he shook his head of any uncertainty and decided nothing he could say mattered anymore. "I need you and you're not fucking there for me; you're just not. I mean, I can't even blame you at all. But I know we were everything to each other once and I thought that maybe, just _maybe_ , whatever we have – had – could transcend all this time. Everything, _everything_ in me hurts like hell, Steve, because you've settled in here, and I'm still just a ghost story to you. I'm broken, and you're sick of me, and maybe I expected too much. They tried killing off all the human parts of me, hell, they even cut off my arm to make me half robot. But they could never cut off you. Till the end of the line, right? That was supposed to be us. It was always supposed to be us."

                The last words came out in a rasp, and didn’t realise how hard he was sobbing until he stopped talking to gasp for air. He was angry, yes; months of anger built up over time – but what he’d said hadn’t even scratched the surface. It was nothing compared to everything else that had made him feel this way. And now he was crying and weak and vulnerable in front of the one person who mattered. But his gaze didn’t waver from Steve, whose face was set in stone. His eyes were ice, jawline set firmly, as if he were grinding his teeth together. A chill spread through Bucky as he stared into those cold eyes of his once-lover, his once-everything (his still-best friend, no matter how hard he wanted to hate him).

                “I can’t do this anymore,” he breathed out and finally broke eye contact.

                The tension between them was so palpable even Steve was having difficulty catching his breath. Bucky couldn’t even bring himself to wipe the tears from his eyes, and he let the salty water run into the corners of his mouth.

                Steve took in a breath.

                “Bucky,” he started, but Bucky whipped around again and cut him off.

                “Don’t –”

                He stopped. Real anger flashed in Steve’s eyes, an emotion Bucky had never seen pass between them before. Frustration, or impatience maybe, but never anger like this. And it started to hit Bucky then that maybe, just maybe, they were never meant to last all those decades apart.

                "No Bucky, you listen. I cannot fucking believe you. I thought I knew you, you know? I know how it used to be between us, because I remember every goddamn thing. I remember _everything_. All the good and bad. I know it’s hard for you. I know how hard it is to exist like this, I've been there. I died in a sense too, you know. I came back and ran right into those busy streets in the centre of Manhattan, and nothing has been the same since. But you know what? I fucking adjusted, because that’s what you do. And I didn’t have _you_ either. You weren’t there when I woke up, you weren’t, and there was nothing! I thought you were dead and I blamed myself for that. Hell, next time I saw you, you were trying to fucking _kill me_. You wanted me _dead_ and that hurt like hell. So I’m sorry my ‘boy toy’ was there to help pick me back up after someone I loved was shooting at me. I'm sorry it still hurts to look at you and think of everything you did with Hydra. I’m sorry I can't handle this right now -you don't understand what it's like to lose someone like you and then wake up every day knowing that nothing can be the same ever again. Because then you start to think, if nothing can be the same I'm at least going to be in charge of the things that are different. So don’t you pin that on me – don’t you fucking think I didn’t ache for you every day of my waking life. Don’t think I gave up on you just because I fell out of love with you. You can’t blame me for you giving up on wanting to get better either. You can’t blame me for you not trying. I was trying to get you everything, we were all trying to give you everything and you’re just pretending to be okay while taking it and throwing it away somewhere we can’t find the remains! That’s not right. You can’t want to get better and reject any help that comes your way just because you’re bitter over me! That’s just pathetic, Bucky, and you know it! No one’s saying you have to be better by now, but you at least need to pick yourself up and make a fucking effort. None of us have had an easy life; we’ve all got our issues, but we’re not blaming anyone! We built ourselves from our disaster. We don’t sit around in the rubble and wait to be swept up by the clean-up crew. We stand back up and build our own goddamn masterpieces. We _do_ something to make ourselves better. _You_ have to fucking do something to make yourself better, Bucky.”

                Steve was panting heavily. Bucky’s face contorted with shock and hurt.

                Maybe it was that he found truth behind Steve’s words. Maybe it was the way Bucky wasn’t included in that “us” Steve had mentioned. Maybe it was “loved”, not “love”. Maybe it was everything else that he’d said. But Bucky was done.

                “Get out.”

                Steve didn’t argue. He swung the door open and slammed it behind him. The sound rang through the apartment, and Bucky hadn’t felt more alone in months.

                He made a decision then, with the dark creeping in to the corners of his mind and blinding him. His mind was a mess, but one thing was clear – there was no home for him here.

**********************************************************************

                It was hours later, when the sun was down and there was no one around, when he could finally feel the nothingness.

                He’d climbed up to the roof of his apartment building, and he stood staring out at the expanse of the city. He couldn’t quite believe how vast New York had become. The city lights blinded him, and the darkness of the sky tried to grab him, pull him in closer. He was 15 floors up, and as he contemplated what his hometown had become, he realised that everything was the opposite from how it used to be: all the stars were in the city and all the darkness was in the sky.

                The humid summer air wrapped around him, making his clothes stick to his sweaty body. He was barefoot, toes on the edge of the rooftop, looking down at the alleyway below him. He knew every way he could land at the bottom with minimal damage – his programming was still trying to protect him so that his efficiency could be maximised. He didn’t need to be efficient anymore.

                He didn’t feel anything and maybe, if he cared a bit more, he would’ve been scared. He was too messed up, too far gone, a lost cause. Everything was already over for him – there was no love, there was no life in him. He was alone, and not getting better, and there was nothing more to him. There was no fear. There was no desperation. There was no sadness in leaving anymore. There was nothing but him and the ground, and the big space stretching between them.

                He breathed in the Brooklyn night, all the people and smoke and light and noise, _so much noise_ , deep and swirling all around him. He felt himself swaying forward, unbalanced (always unbalanced since that goddamn arm). The wind was beckoning, aiding him. The darkness below him was a blanket, a promise of a soft fall.

                All it would take was a step.

                But he didn’t get that far. He hadn’t heard anyone follow him up to the roof, and under normal circumstances, it would’ve been nearly impossible that he didn’t notice (this wasn’t normal, and he was too consumed by the darkness). He had already begun shifting his weight forwards when fingers wrapped around his human arm and pulled him backwards onto the rooftop again.

                He stumbled into a body, a warm body, and he felt a heartbeat he knew better than his own. He heard a voice – soft, muffled against him.

                _"I thought I told you not to do anything stupid.”_

                And then he felt everything. He felt everything like he’d never felt before – it wasn’t like anxiety, no, it was more like revival. It was rebirth, a feeling so intense he could do nothing but cry. He let the tears stream down his face, soaking Steve’s shirt. He grabbed onto him like a lifeline – in a sense, he _was_ a lifeline. Steve held him like he didn’t ever want to let go, like he couldn’t even if he wanted to. He whispered reassurance into Bucky’s ear, incoherent, but it meant everything. And Bucky was too relieved to be bitter.

                Bucky felt a rumble in Steve’s chest, the kind of heaving that can only ever result from suppressed sobs. Captain America, star-spangled man with a plan, was crying over a deadbeat monster. He felt him take in a shaky breath before he spoke.

                “I couldn’t catch you last time. I’m not letting that happen again.”

                And Bucky burst into sobs, curling himself into his friend. Steve’s shirt was probably a total mess by now. Everything hit him, coming in waves of regret and anger and fear and sadness. He couldn’t begin to ask for forgiveness, not after everything he’d said, after everything he’d done. So he lay against Steve, jumbled apologies tumbling out from both of their mouths. Bucky cried and relished in the comfort offered, soaking it up like he would never get it again. Steve brushed his hands through Bucky’s hair, the way he used to do, and for the first time in – he couldn’t even remember how long – he felt safe.

                When he felt like he could breathe again, Steve led him slowly back down from the rooftop and closed the door on their darkness.

                They entered the apartment in an edgy calm. Steve busied himself in the kitchen, fussing with making them cups of tea as they both wiped their tears on their clothes. Of course the sweetness of being that close to each other again wouldn’t make them ignore the elephant in the room.

                Steve placed the mug of tea in front of Bucky and sat down in the chair opposite, wrapping his hands around his own mug. Bucky stared into the steam curling up from his tea; he was never good at dealing with the aftermath.

                He was going to change that. He took in the shaky breath this time.

                “How did you find me?” he choked out, voice still raw from the sobs.

                “Never left,” Steve mumbled, staring into his mug. “Waited outside in the hall. Thought I’d calm down before apologising. Saw you climb up there. Sorry.”

                Bucky almost wanted to laugh. Everything Bucky had said and there Steve sat, apologising first. He’d always known Steve was good; he was always too good. Bucky cleared his throat, working up the nerve to be vulnerable in a way he hadn’t been with anyone else before.

                “I’m sorry Steve. _So_ fucking sorry. I don’t even know where to begin. I don’t know how to ask for any forgiveness, and after what you just did I – I can’t ask that of you. Believe me, I know how much all of you have given for me, how much I don’t deserve any of it. I’m just really sorry – I didn’t mean everything that I said. Most of it, really. It was just… misdirected anger, I think. I love Sam, you know I do. I’m happy for you, honestly, I’m just – I still want you too. And I can’t help that. That’s not even why I was mad I –” He hesitated. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and swallowed hard, fighting the feeling of his throat closing up, swallowing hard. It was now or never. All or nothing.

                “I don’t know how to get better. I don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t know how to want to get better. I don’t know how to be different from this. My therapist’s an ass, and she doesn’t know anything, Steve. The nightmares and anxiety attacks and everything physically hurts and it’s all just too much. And I thought you hated me, I thought you would never want to be near me again after that fight and it was just so much that I didn’t feel anything at all, you know?” His voice cracked, and he was rambling and fighting off more sobs. God, he was sick of crying tonight. “I don’t know how to feel worth something anymore.”

                Steve sat in silence, watching him pour his heart onto the table. But Bucky could see the tears pooling at the edge of Steve’s eyes, and for once, he felt relief at the sight.

                Steve sighed again. He seemed to be doing a lot of that lately. It wasn’t in exasperation or disappointment – no, more something between sadness and regret.

                “I’m sorry, Bucky. I’m sorry we fought like that, and I’m sorry I said all those things. I’m sorry I hurt you, I’m sorry I’m just…” He paused and took a breath in, pressing his hands to his eyes. “It’s not fucking fair. It’s not, and I think we both know that. I shouldn’t have said that I blamed you when you weren’t there when I woke up, not when I know you couldn’t have been, no matter what. I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, not when you needed me the most. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I said that I can’t face you because of Hydra, because what happened to you wasn’t your fault. Fuck, I can’t even believe I said that. I can’t believe I said any of it! I didn’t mean it at all. I’m sorry I’ve left you in this darkness for so long. I guess I was just scared, and sad, because I know everything that happened and you don’t. And I guess I hid that knowledge instead of using it to help you. I pushed you away, more than you could ever do to me. You don’t need to put yourself back together alone. I should’ve been there. ‘Cause you’re right. We were always supposed to be till the end of the line, you and me, no matter what happens. I’m so sorry.”

                Bucky had stopped those heart-wrenching sobs, but at Steve’s words, the tears poured down his cheeks, pooling under his chin. He cleared his throat once more, feeling he needed to finalise this.

                “You were there more than anyone else was; hell, you just saved me from myself, punk. I couldn’t be open with you; I was bitter and jealous and I – I’m hurting. But I don’t want to be anymore.” He faltered, chewing on the inside of his cheek, convincing himself to say his next words. He took another shaky breath, daring himself to be brave for just a second. Just one second.

                He locked his gaze on Steve.

                “Help me?”

                Steve was across the table in seconds, nodding and hugging Bucky to him again, both of them crying into each other. Bucky thought they must be quite a sight as they were, with all the tears they’d shed that night and everything that had happened.

                “Thank you, Stevie.” Bucky mumbled, so softly he wasn’t sure Steve heard it. But Steve held him tighter, and closer, as if trying to hold onto the pieces of Bucky that he used to know, shielding him from all the darkness around them.

                "You haven’t said that to me since the forties.”

                They both cried until their throats grew unspeakably raw, but Bucky felt he could breathe better. His apartment wasn’t suffocating him anymore. And for the first time, neither was Steve.

                They pulled away from each other eventually, using their shirts to wipe their eyes again and smiling through the tear stains on their cheeks. Happy smiles, smiles full of promise and a new life.

                Bucky felt something brush against his leg and when he looked down, he saw the cat he had ‘adopted’, rubbing up against his leg. In a flash of guilt, he realised he’d forgotten all about her when he was up on the roof. He stared down at her, in awe at the affection she was showing him. He may not have been worth much, but he’d given this cat new life, and that was a start.

                Steve watched him look down at the cat.

                “I never named her.” Bucky said, still watching her.

                “You should get around to that.”

                The cat jumped up on the chair where he had been sitting before. She looked so sweet, innocent and peaceful. She made Bucky feel human again. She gave him –

                “– hope…” he muttered.

                “What was that?” Steve inquired as he moved to clean up the table.

                “I want to name her Hope.”

                Steve smiled at him from the kitchen. “I couldn’t think of a better name.”

**********************************************************************

                Five weeks after the rooftop incident, Bucky started feeling better.

                There were bad days of course, more often than not, but things were looking up. He was getting there. He had officially adopted Hope. He hadn’t gone to the VA with Sam since the week of the fight with Steve, but he’d gotten a new therapist, who actually listened to him, who was someone he felt he could trust. She prescribed him medication – more effort for him in trying to remember he had to take them, but the result was worth it. She was patient and smarter than Anne, seeming to care more about his actual well-being, and he always felt just a tiny bit lighter after leaving.

                He was opening up. Not just in therapy, but in his own life too. Steve took him over to the tower some days, for training, or just for a different atmosphere. He was still anxious around Stark, but he managed to thank him for everything he’d done. He _was_ grateful; getting the words out was a struggle, but it was something he was proud of himself for accomplishing. He even found Natasha warming up to him as long as Steve was around with them. She had armour, and she was hard to crack, but she was funny when she wasn’t being scared of him. Sam helped him get used to technology too, and the tower was a great place to get acquainted with it all. So he’d started something new; he’d started a lot of somethings, actually. It was messy and awkward at first, but it was the start, and it was a welcome change.

                He and Steve rekindled their friendship, too. Bucky still loved him, of course, but it wasn’t everything anymore. He began to enjoy Steve’s company genuinely, without wanting so desperately, wishing it were something more. It was new and different, and it was good. There was no bitterness anymore, and the best part was he could tell this to Steve again. He felt open and honest and less alone. Steve was the one taking him to therapy nowadays. He’d take him for the sessions, and then they would actually, honestly, talk to each other. Sometimes they would talk over coffee or see a movie (although nothing too loud or gory, for both their sakes). He felt like Steve cared again. And it was better. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the medication, but the whole world just seemed a little more colourful.

                The air in Brooklyn seemed to clear with every passing day, too. Bucky spent a lot more time outside, just walking and breathing, and taking in everything he could. He’d stopped smoking so much since the reconnection with Steve; besides, it wasn’t allowed in the library, which was where he spent most of his time when he wasn’t with Steve.

                He learnt so much. He learnt about his disorders, about history and science and music and all the injustice in the world. It was reigniting a long-suppressed passion in him.

                He didn’t fully know who he was before, but in the end, it didn’t really matter. He started to see himself as someone new in the future. There were things about him that would never change – his anxiety, his arm, the damaging curvature of his spine – but he could learn to improve the things he did have control over. He could try, and for now, that hope was all he needed.

                This city, this world was a mess, and nothing like he had ever known before. But it was growing on him again. He had Steve, and Sam (whom he had become close with over the months), and Hope, and it was messy, but the world was shining with possibility for him.

                It had been seven months since Bucky had moved into Stark’s tower.

                He’d grown. He’d loved, and had been lost and been found. He’d been broken down and he was building himself up again from the ground up. He’d adapted to his new world, and he was falling more in love with it every day. He was making something out of his life. He was moving on from Steve, and from all the pain and misery of his past. He was learning and becoming and being, and for once, it felt good to simply exist.

                Steve helped him remember as much as he could. And the longer he went without freezing or being wiped, the more he could remember. Most of it was horrible and awful, but Steve was there for the bad things, and he helped him to remember the good things.

                But the best part was, he wasn’t bound to who he used to be. The more time he spent on his own, the more he realised that it was never about discovering who he used to be. It was never supposed to be like that always. He didn’t have to enjoy the things he used to, he didn’t have to be the person he was; he didn’t _have_ to be the person Steve remembered him as. He could build the world for himself. Every door was open for him, and the thought of creating himself instead of just finding himself was the most beautiful thought he’d had since coming back.

                It had been so long since he’d known what to call that fuzzy feeling, when the world seems at peace and you feel like you have everything you need in one place, in a single moment. But it hit him one day, all alone in his apartment. The windows were open, and the first chilling breezes of autumn were drifting through the living room, where he lay. It felt clear and new and refreshing. He held a book in one hand instead of a cigarette now, and he pet Hope, who was on his lap, curled into the warmth of his sweater. She didn’t flinch, or dart away now, and tobacco wasn’t burning his throat. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like a monster, or an abomination, out of place and out of time. He felt safe, he felt loved, he felt calm. And he felt something settling inside of him, something so foreign and long gone he’d almost forgotten he could give it a name, or that it had one at all.

                He was home.

*** _Epilogue *******************************************************************_

                He’d been holding off on going back to the VA meetings with Sam. But Sam was more than delighted to take him once he felt ready again. In fact, Bucky was more than ready. And Sam was giddy at his request for the meeting.

                Sam was beaming as they pulled up and walked in. Bucky grabbed a cup of water from the back of the room before sitting down again, focusing on his breathing. He listened intently, like he used to, letting all the words and stories soak in as Sam conducted the meeting the way he remembered. He tapped his fingers nervously against the cup.

                “We’ve got a newcomer today. Well, he’s not exactly new around here, but he hasn’t been able to be fully present in recent months. So he wants to come up and share a bit about himself with you today. Please welcome Sergeant Barnes,” Sam stepped away from the podium, nodding and smiling encouragingly at Bucky. Bucky exhaled the breath he was holding and crushed his plastic cup before standing up and walking to the podium. The applause was muffled in his ears. It was a strange feeling, walking up there and realising everyone in the room was watching him, all of them aware of his existence. He should have been unsettled, petrified, rooted to the spot, but he wasn’t.

                He kept walking, and it got easier the closer he got to the podium. His heartbeat had been pounding at the bottom of his throat, but it only thrummed lightly against his ribcage now. He stepped up to the podium, and gripped the sides to steady himself. He looked out at the audience, all the other veterans sitting in front of him, all of their eyes on him, only him. He had worn a jacket, because it always got chilly in that room, so there was nothing for them to focus on but his words.

                He scanned the crowd once more and cleared his throat in preparation. The room fell silent, and it was as if the world had frozen.

                Except for a slight movement in the doorway. His eyes immediately snapped to the back of the room, and he locked his gaze with Steve, who smiled at him warmly from the corner. His hands loosened a bit on the podium. A smile tugged at the corner of Bucky’s mouth. It was all the encouragement he needed.

                He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on Steve.

                _“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant James Barnes of the 107 th. I fought in World War II, and this is how I came home.”_

**Author's Note:**

> playlist based on this story if you wanna give it a listen: http://8tracks.com/punkjerks/the-sun-will-rise
> 
> hope you enjoyed it (if you made it this far!) and i'm sorry for everything but also thank you for reading this far! x


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